


Twenty-five Days

by calis_1st



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calis_1st/pseuds/calis_1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm about to become the last person on earth who knows where you are."  Neal has twenty-five days to make that not true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-five Days

"I'm about to become the last person on earth who knows where you are."

Faster than Neal could even voice the obvious question his arms were pinned and a sack was pulled over his head and down past his shoulders. He struggled to escape but with his first breath he felt lightheaded and off-balance as he was pulled forward. With his second breath he realized he was being drugged, and by his third he was already unconscious on the floor of the van. He recalled Peter telling him it wasn't over, but he was pretty sure that it was.

***

Not two hours after he told Neal that Justice refused to grant him the commutation he deserved, Neal's anklet was cut. For a few moments - but only a few - Peter was angry that Neal had chosen to run. But his anger quickly dissolved to resignation, and then to sadness and understanding. He didn't think Neal wanted to be a fugitive again, and while he understood Neal's frustration and resentment Peter really didn't think Neal would take off again. Again - no, that wasn't exactly right. The one time Neal ever actually ran was the time Peter told him to. The only comparable time was when Fowler arranged for his leaving, and Neal had no reason to believe that Project Mentor wasn't a legitimate deal. He may have slipped the leash a few times, taken advantage of opportunities while he was off-anklet, escaped from custody more than once, but he never actually ran on his own.

But even this made no sense. If Neal was really going to run, wouldn’t he have waited until Peter was in DC? Something told him this was all wrong. With a sigh, he called June to let her know that either the FBI or the Marshals would be there soon (and he'd push as hard as he could for it to be his team).

That was when everything turned upside-down.

"Peter, I was hoping to hear from you before your move to DC. Are you still leaving tomorrow?"

"Actually, no, June, my plans have changed. I have to ask, is Neal there, by any chance?"

"No, the last time I saw him he was on his way to see you. Didn't he get there?" She sounded concerned.

"I did see him. I had - bad news. He was understandably angry when he left, and now the Marshals just called and said his anklet was cut. June, please, do you know anything about it?"

"No, I don't, but to be honest he wouldn't have told me if he'd planned anything illegal. Have you spoken to Mozzie?"

"I don't have any way to reach him."

"I expect him here shortly, I'll have him call you. But, Peter, we both know, no matter what happened, Neal wouldn't run because of bad news. He wanted nothing more than a fresh start. He's got less than a year on his sentence, he wouldn't risk life in prison without a damn good reason. What bad news did you have for him?"

Peter repeated his earlier conversation with Neal, ending with Neal's belief that it was all a game.

"Peter, he's angry, but not foolish. He's not the impulsive, love-struck young man who escaped from prison before. You and I both know that. Hold on, I believe Mozzie just arrived."

Peter heard muffled voices and, as expected, it was Mozzie who came back on the line.

"Neal's missing? I don't know what you think, but he's not running. I would know if he was, and he's not. I left him in the park not a half hour ago."

"Mozzie, come on, I told him Justice wouldn't reduce his sentence because he did his job too well, his anklet is cut and he disappears. He still thinks I'm leaving tomorrow with Elizabeth and now - he's gone. What am I supposed to believe?"

"You're staying?"

"Yes, Mozzie."

"And Mrs. Suit is - ?"

Peter sighed.

"Is leaving. I couldn't risk Neal being turned over to someone who wouldn't value him as well as his contributions, so I turned down the DC position. Only Neal didn't know that because I hadn't had time to tell him."

"You have to believe that, if Neal's gone, it wasn't by his own choice. I know because - because - we talked about me hacking the tracker's signal, which would theoretically take a week or so. He wouldn't have done anything before that." He paused while he wiped his glasses on his shirt tail. "Peter, you have to find him."

Peter felt a nearly physical ache in his chest as he considered just how many people might want to harm Neal, from his past and as a result of his service with the FBI. There were Matthew Keller and Ryan Wilkes, both of whom would kill Neal in a heartbeat. Rachel Turner, with a still-uncovered network and the ability to hunt Neal down, even from prison. Pierce Spellman, Rob MacLeish, Ghovat, Avery Phillips - Neal was involved in all of their captures, and all of them were capable of murder. The Russian mob, the Flynns and the Irish mob, the Chinese mob, hell, maybe even the Detroit mob, if they were using Neal to get to Mozzie. The remains of Pratt's organization. Peter realized he was holding his breath as he considered the scope of enemies Neal had made while working as his CI.

"Peter?" Mozzie said, when the silence went on for too long.

"I believe you, Moz. I'm going to round up my team and find Neal. Can you - would you - come to my office in about an hour?" he asked, knowing how paranoid Mozzie was about entering the FBI headquarters.

"For Neal - of course."

*****

**_Day 3_ **

Neal’s eyes burned, his throat was raw. His tongue felt bone-dry as he rubbed it across the equally dry roof of his mouth. None of that bothered him as much as the racing of his heart. He tried to lift his head but it felt as if someone had placed an iron band across his forehead and tightened it, and then chained it to the floor.

"Welcome back," a disembodied voice said. It was tinny with static, as if through a bad speaker.

"Wha - where - ." He needed to swallow but there was nothing there. He tried raising his head again. This time he could lift it a couple of inches off the pillowless canvas cot.

"And here I thought you were the smart one. How disappointing."

He knew the voice, he just couldn't put a name and face with it yet. Woman, mid- 40's, suit, professional, fingernails.

"Mara Summers," he barely managed to get out, unable to get the bitterness in his head into his voice.

"Very good, Mr. Caffrey. I'm sure you're thirsty by now. It's been three days since you last had something to eat or drink. Would you like some water?"

*****

Three days after Neal's disappearance Peter stood at the head of the conference room table, his back to a white board that was reminiscent of his first hunt for Neal Caffrey. Except this time, instead of suspected thefts, forgeries and other crimes, there was a list of people Neal had helped put in prison. It was a long list. The number of names increased nearly every time that Peter, Diana or Jones pulled out a case file, but some of those names had already been crossed off as one agent or another interviewed or reviewed the prison records of each individual. Ryan Wilkes and Dr. Wayne Powell were both dead. Pierce Spellman had gotten an early release but was deported back to Canada, where she remained. Dr. Mara Summers was on bail awaiting trial. The ones interviewed so far - Edward Walker, Avery Phillips, Ghovat, Gary Jennings, Robert MacLeish, Gerard Dorsett, Eric Dunham - denied having anything to do with Neal's disappearance, and Peter was inclined to believe them, after reviewing the interview tapes. A few others remained outstanding. Matthew Keller had had no contact with anyone - by telephone, mail or in person - for nearly two years. Rachel Turner refused to speak with anyone from the FBI. They were still searching for James Bennett. 

On top of the individuals, there was the Russian mob, the Chinese mob, the Irish mob. Anyone left from Pratt's organization. Ruiz's Organized Crime Unit was surprisingly helpful in handling that portion of the investigation, but they, too, came up empty so far. The more names they had added to the list over the past few days, the deeper Peter's ire grew toward the Department of Justice for not freeing Neal. 

*****************

Neal heard a door unlock, then open. The dim light from the hallway outside was much brighter than the small night light plugged into an outlet in the room he was in. He squinted until he could make out the silhouette of a man in the doorway. Neal heard the man's heels clicking across the floor as he walked toward Neal.

"Well, well," the man said. "About time." Neal recognized the voice as Cowboy Boots Man, who was not inclined to give a name. Boots pulled Neal up into a sitting position on the narrow cot and pushed a water bottle to his mouth. 

"Don't be foolish," Summers' voice came from somewhere past the door. "I should think by now you've realized that I can drug you any way I want. Right now I just want to talk to you, and I need you to understand what I'm saying, and remember it." 

As much as Neal tried to not to drink, his overwhelming thirst won out. He stopped after a few gulps.

"That's better. Good things can happen when you're cooperative." She stood in the doorway, the light casting her in silhouette. Neal couldn't see her face but he knew she'd planned it that way. He waited for her to begin.

"Don't you wonder why you're here?" she finally asked.

He shrugged. 

"Guess it's some combination of revenge and money," he replied.

"Two out of three. Very good. You stole two million dollars from me. I want it back. You stole my professional future. I want recompense for that, as well. The third, and this is why I won't drug you unless you give me reason to, I need a passport and a few other documents. I need to get far away from New York, and I want you to make them for me."

"I can't make legal documents out of thin air, and I doubt you have the right inks, paper and printer in the next room."

He couldn't see the expression on her face but he could see her tilt her head.

"I'm sure your little friend with the glasses and funny scarves has access to those things, right? Should I have him picked up?"

"No! Leave him out of this. I - I can get what I need, it'll just take a little time."

"I'm curious as to how you plan on doing that, but you don't have a lot of time. Today is the fourteenth of the month. My trial is in a little over three weeks, beginning on the seventh. You have until midnight on the fifth to have everything ready. I'll leave you alone for two hours to eat, drink, wash up, and think about just how you're going to pull this off, Mr. Caffrey." 

*****************

"Summers made bail?” Jones asked.

“She wasn’t charged with a capital offense, she isn’t considered a flight risk since all of her assets were frozen and her passport confiscated, so the DA agreed to bail. Plus she’s on electronic monitoring while she awaits trial.”

“She can’t be happy with Caffrey. I mean, he’s the reason she admitted her crimes and is probably heading to prison.”

“Her trial's coming up soon, I believe. I may be called to testify," Peter said.

Jones briefly perused a file.

“Starts on the seventh of next month.”

“Get hold of the Marshals. Let’s see if we can bring her in for a chat.”

*****************

Three days lost. If she was drugging his food or water now it wasn’t with something obvious enough that he was able to notice. Neal couldn’t help but pace as he picked up the sandwich Boots left for him while absently running his other hand through his tangled hair. The remnants of his headache were just enough to be a slight distraction as he tried to think about how he could both cooperate enough to live through the next 22 days and somehow escape.

First things first. He’d always relied on Mozzie for cash and materials, regardless of whose stash they were raiding. Neal had contacts but Mozzie’s ran far deeper, especially since Neal began serving his sentence with the FBI. His only hope was for Mozzie or Peter to pick up on a purchase or a means to a purchase necessary for Neal to give Summers what she wanted. No, he reminded himself, just Mozzie. Peter was in DC, unless he was sticking around for another manhunt. He wondered if Summers had any fences in her former patient list. He wondered if he would need to farm out the passport to Devlin or someone else in the forger community. He needed to start by getting cash to her, and quickly, by doing what he did best.

******

**_Day 5_**

It had taken two days before the Marshals agreed to deliver Mara Summers to FBI headquarters. 

"Please, have a seat," Peter said, as she was brought to the interrogation room.

"Agent Burke, while I appreciate the opportunity to leave my home, I'm not sure why you've requested this visit, other than you've stated that it's not about my upcoming trial. Should I call my lawyer?"

"That's certainly your right, but I'm not here to discuss your case or to charge you with anything new. I want to talk to you about Neal Caffrey. If you think you need your lawyer, I'll have someone place a call for you."

"I'll keep that option open. What do you want to know about him?"

"You told him he was a sociopath. Is he?"

"HIPAA doesn't allow me to discuss it with you."

"I have his medical power of attorney, and the privacy provision of the act doesn't apply in this case."

She stared at him for a few seconds.

"Very well then, yes, Mr. Caffrey most definitely suffers from antisocial personality disorder. He uses charm to manipulate others, he's a liar and a thief, he's impulsive, and he feels no guilt. He takes unnecessary risks, he has no regard for right and wrong. You of all people should see that."

Peter was taken aback with that description. "That does sound like Neal."

"Is that really what you want from me, Agent Burke? A psych evaluation of your CI?"

Peter nodded. "Neal disappeared a few days ago. I wouldn't have expected him to have run off."

"It makes perfect sense. He would have considered only himself, and not what this would have done to anyone else. He's probably been planning this for months."

"Yes, he did excel at the long con," said Peter, recalling how Neal might have had a chance with Adler had he not given his heart to Kate. "But, actually, there is evidence that he was taken against his will."

Her eyebrows twitched momentarily. "Evidence? What kind of evidence?" she asked after a brief pause.

"Well, it's more a matter of what we're not finding than what we are."

"Such as?"

Peter stood and looked down at her, the trace of a smile on his lips. "Nothing relevant to his state of mind, I'm sure. Thank you for your time and your insight. Agent Wesley will bring you back home."

She looked confused as Peter walked her to the door.

"That's all you wanted to discuss?"

"I got what I needed, thank you." 

He stopped smiling the moment she was escorted from the room. 

"What did you think, Diana?" he asked after Summers and Wesley were in the elevator.

"She asked about the evidence for Neal's kidnapping awfully fast instead of arguing for her diagnosis," Diana replied as she stepped into the interrogation room.

"Agreed. She looked surprised when I mentioned it. My gut tells me she has some involvement."

"Was Neal supposed to testify against her?"

"No, the DA is able to prove his case without Neal. I doubt he's even on the list of potential witnesses."

"Does she know that?"

Peter tilted his head. "I have no idea. It would make for motive, though."

***********

By his fifth day of captivity Neal realized just how thoroughly screwed he was. On the third day, his first day awake, he proposed forging two paintings - a Picasso (that Mozzie would recognize as one he’d forged a couple of months before he went to prison), and a Degas (that both Peter and Mozzie would clearly remember from the sub). Neal had suggested that they sell the first to buy the supplies he'd need to forge the passport, with a decent amount of cash left over. The second painting would set her up financially for a very long time. He gave her a list of supplies he'd need to make the paintings, including paints, brushes, canvases, a drying oven, ancillary materials, and natural light. Maybe a fan to help alleviate the stuffiness in the room. He also asked for a few personal items, including a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, linens, and clothes. 

Neal mentioned several fences that specialized in these types of works but Boots rejected all of Neal’s suggestions, without saying whether Mara already someone to broker the sale of the paintings. The problem Neal foresaw with not knowing who she was dealing with was that Mozzie or Peter might then never see these particular paintings. 

He was left alone yesterday. He used the time to carefully inspect every inch of his prison. It was a small, windowless cinderblock room, maybe ten feet by 16 feet, with a small alcove holding a sink and a toilet. He assumed he was in a basement, and guessed it might be Summers' house. The door was in the middle of the short wall and opened out, so the hinges were on the opposite side. Of course there was no doorknob. An aluminum framed canvas camp cot with a single sheet was the sole piece of furniture. There were two wall outlets, one of which held a night light. As he’d discovered the day before, there was a two-way speaker over the door. An overhead plastic fixture held a single light bulb that shone with all of its 40 watt incandescent glory, and typically came on just before someone entered his room. There was nothing else in the room or on the walls or ceiling. Most noticeable by its absence was any ventilation system, except for the opening of the door. It went a long way to explaining the low grade headache he couldn’t shake, unless Boots came by for a visit.

When Boots brought food in yesterday (lunch? dinner? Neal could hardly tell) he gave Neal the soap, toothpaste and towels he'd asked for, nixed the toothbrush as having the potential to be made into a knife (someone watches too much television, Neal thought), and told him he’d have to earn the clothes. Neal was just irritated enough that he decided he’d wash what he was wearing in the sink instead. The issue of an adequate air supply never came up.

***  
 ** _Day 6_**

Boots showed up with the canvas, paints, brushes, easel, and most of the other materials Neal had asked for. He also brought in an extension cord and three high-intensity lamps that were going to have to do for light, otherwise he'd be happy to find Neal's little friend for inspiration. Or maybe the lovely older woman who lived in that pretty house on Riverside Drive. Neal only glanced at him as he set up his workspace. 

"You're going to watch me?" Neal asked when he realized Boots set up a chair just beyond the door.

"Just making sure you don't cut yourself with the lights. Accidently, of course."

Or more likely afraid he'd make a shiv out of a paintbrush, Neal thought, remembering Summer' excuse about the toothbrush. Although he wasn't thrilled about the audience, the trade-off of having breathable air made up for it.

Neal pushed himself as long as he could but after about six hours he stopped. His eyes were burning and his headache had returned with a vengeance, because even with the door open the vapors from the paints and solvents were overwhelming in the small space. The lights, although good for color precision, were too bright and focused, and they only added to pounding behind his eyes. 

"I'll finish this tomorrow morning, then I'll age it as soon as you bring in the oven," Neal told Boots as he started cleaning his brushes.

"It looks almost done to me," Boots replied. "How much more you got to go on this?"

Neal appeared to study his work. "About two more hours."

"Well, maybe you might get fed tonight after you put two more hours into finishing your work here."

Neal stared at him. "It's not happening. Tomorrow it will be finished properly. Tonight I'll only make mistakes. I assume she wants this done right, so if you want to tell her why it couldn't wait a half day, go ahead. I can't do any more tonight."

"That's fine, Mr. Caffrey," came Summers' disembodied voice through the speaker. "Clean up and give everything to my assistant, then we'll see about getting you something to eat."

In the end Neal had to put everything on a cart and pass it toward Boots, who held a gun on Neal with one hand while he pulled the cart through the door with the other. 

"See you later," he said, just before he locked Neal in the room. 

A little while later the door opened, and Boots brought in dinner. Not surprisingly, it was another sandwich requiring no utensils. What Neal wasn't expecting was that it was a decent cut of beef served on a chunk of French bread. More surprising was that Mara Summers stood in the hallway behind Boots, examining the painting. 

"This is nice," she said, nodding. "I'll let you have a fan tomorrow if you continue to cooperate."

"Why not now?" Neal asked.

"You earned dinner today. Tomorrow you may earn dinner and fresh air. It's all up to you, Mr. Caffrey." With that she walked away. Boots just grinned at Neal and locked up for the night. Someone turned out the overhead light, leaving just the night light in the room on. 

Neal put the sandwich back on the paper plate, his appetite gone. He knew what she was doing and he understood why. If he were a psychopath - or the sociopath she'd accused him of being - he might have done the same thing, except he never actually set out to hurt anyone. This was not the time to over-think what she was doing and why, he told himself; her job was to break him and his was to survive. Mind and body whole, if possible. He picked up the sandwich and managed to eat about half before the headache made him too nauseous to finish it.

*****  
It was close to midnight when Peter let himself into his empty house. He missed his wife, he missed his dog. He missed his friend. He was frustrated by what he perceived as the lack of progress in finding Neal. It was moments like this, when he was exhausted and alone, that his mind wandered over to the dark recesses that said Neal and Mozzie were playing him. He preferred that thought, though, to the even darker one - that Neal was dead, and he'd never see him - his best friend after Elizabeth - again.

To make matters worse, Hughes had called him into his office earlier that evening. 

"Do we have surveillance on the Mara Summers house?"

"Yes, I authorized a detail yesterday."

"Well, unauthorize it. We just got a cease-and-desist order. Her lawyer thinks the tracking anklet is more than sufficient monitoring and the court agreed."

Peter shook his head. They might know where Mara Summers was at all times, but he was more interested in who came and went. 

Almost as if Mozzie knew that Peter was home (and for all Peter knew, maybe Mozzie did) his cell phone buzzed. It was Mozzie, of course, and he was using the same phone he had been since Neal went missing. Peter found it comforting that Neal's oddly endearing friend put aside his usual paranoia to reach out to Peter and his team regularly with no attempts to hide behind burner phones and secret codes.

"Moz, any good news?"

"No news yet, but that segues into the reason for my call. As you might imagine, I have many contacts in what you'd probably refer to as the "grey areas" of our fair city. I've pulled every favor from every contact I have to get any information they have or might find out about Neal's disappearance. I think whoever took him wants something from him, because if they wanted him d - ." Mozzie paused and took a deep breath. "If they wanted to hurt him, it would have happened already and they would have made sure we knew about it." 

"That makes sense."

"And in case favors aren't enough, June's put up a sizeable reward for information, and a much more significant one for his safe return."

For the first time in a few days Peter started to feel hopeful again.

***  
 ** _Day 10_**

Neal had completed the Picasso forgery three days ago. He should be nearly finished with the Degas, and would have been, if he'd felt the need to work more quickly, if his eyes weren't burning from the lights and fumes, if he didn't have a constant headache and light-headedness, if he didn't know that Mara Summers would have him killed as soon as he finished this painting and her passport.

It was the end of the day and she'd come to the doorway for her customary examination of his work.

"This is lovely, Mr. Caffrey, but I don't see a great deal of progress compared to yesterday. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were dragging your feet on this one."

"Did you sell the Picasso?" he asked. "Did the fence say anything about the aging of the canvas?" Neal had thought the piece had spent a little too long in the oven. He had wanted to personally handle the aging process, but Summers was very clear that that wasn't going to happen. Neal was forced to give detailed instruction to Boots on how to do it, and as much as Neal argued for his need to watch it himself, Summers would not move on that point. This led Neal to believe that the oven they were using was not in this building, because if it was her house, any law enforcement official could stop by at any time, and it would be hard to explain the scent of baking oil paints coming from the kitchen.

"You're changing the subject. Do you honestly think I'd let that slip by? Very well, since you asked, no, I didn't sell it yet. I don't actually need to. I can store this for a couple of years before I need to move it. And don't think I didn't know you were trying to get me to use a fence who would recognize your work. Between that and your slowness, you may need to lose some privileges." 

"Privileges? What privileges? Two meals a day and about half the air I need to work?"

She stared a Neal, a slow smile forming.

"Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention this. I met with Peter Burke a few days ago. Do you know, he's convinced that you ran. Since they think you left the country, Interpol is doing most of the heavy lifting. The FBI's search is cursory, at best."

Neal couldn't help himself from blurting out a response.

"You're lying." He moved toward her, an angry look on his face.

She nodded to Boots. Neal was so focused on Summers that he didn't notice the stun gun in Boots' raised right hand until it was late to stop.

"That's definitely going to cost you some privileges," she said as Neal fell to the ground.

***  
 ** _Day 12_**

Neal woke up to the sound of the door closing and the smell of fresh coffee. His head was pounding, his body ached all over and he knew she had drugged him after hitting him with the stun gun. He downed the coffee, then started picking at the cinnamon bun and grapes that had been left on a paper plate on the floor. He had no idea of how much time he'd lost, and could only assume it was some morning of the decreasing number of days he had left in which to forge a passport. For which he had no materials or equipment to make. He still needed to finish the Degas, although it seemed pointless if she wasn't planning on selling the paintings any time soon. And until or unless he could keep his hands from shaking there would be no way this forgery would look anything like a "Neal Caffrey" piece, so even if she was caught, no one would connect her to him through the painting. 

He sighed and took a few breaths as deeply as he could.

"I'd like to get back to work," he called through the speaker. "And, we have to talk about the passport."

*****

Peter hung up from his telephone call with Matthew Keller feeling as if he needed a shower. The more contact he had with the man the less he could imagine Neal ever working with him. Yet in spite of his innuendo and sleaze Peter was convinced that, not only did Keller have nothing to do with Neal's disappearance, he was unaware of it until today. 

Peter crossed off the last name on the board besides Mara Summers. Rachel Turner had agreed to see him the day before yesterday and she, too, had nothing to offer. He inhaled heavily and picked up and stared into his half-full cup of cold coffee. Suddenly he slammed it onto the conference room table, walked out the door and through the bullpen, taking the stairs instead of the elevator down from the 21st floor.

Diana and Jones exchanged looks.

"I don't know what's left to do," she said.

"We're absolutely certain that no one that's been crossed off our list has anything to do with this, right? I mean, we've got corroborating evidence for every one of their claims that they weren't involved with this. No one we've interviewed had any unusual visitors or outside communications in the six months prior to Neal's kidnapping that would let them set something like this up. That leaves Mara Summers, among the people that we know of. It doesn't help us if there's someone from Neal's past that hasn't crossed our path."

"Let's try to approach this like Neal would. We've looked at Mara Summers and worked our way out from her. What if we see what we can trace to her instead of from her?"

"And what would she want Neal for," Jones said, picking up from Diana's thoughts. "She'd want revenge, but since we've seized all her assets she'd probably need money, too. If you had your hands on one of the best forgers in the world, wouldn't you want them to create some art for you?"

"Yeah, and she probably doesn't have a lot of materials on hand, so she'd need to make some purchases."

"But she doesn't have any money."

"But she had a lot of patients who would have known how to hide money. I'll bet she does have secret bank accounts or hidden cash," Diana continued.

"If it's cash, someone would have to bring it to her. If she has electronic funds, there has to be a cyber trail. If she wants Neal to forge something, why don't we start by looking for recent purchases of everything we know he's used in the past to forge paintings, sculptures, and bonds. Any purchase since the twelfth and delivered to one of the five boroughs and Long Island." 

"That's a lot of looking. Good thing we have probies," Diana grinned.

***

Summers stood in the doorway while Boots wheeled in Neal's painting and supplies.

"This will be finished by the end of today, then I'll be ready to age it," Neal said to Summers. "Have it aged," he said when she glared at him. "I wasn't happy at all with the Picasso. Either the temperature was a few degrees too high or it was left in too long. This can't get screwed up. When it's done, when we're both happy with it, I'll give you a list of what I'll need for your new passport."

"What's wrong with now for that list? It's not your first one, I'm sure," said Boots, angered by Neal's criticism. 

"No," Neal said, looking directly at Summers. "Of course it's not. But it's been a while, I need to concentrate on the exact specs for the inks and materials, and, quite honestly, I can't focus on anything right now." He squeezed his temples. "I don't have to be one hundred percent to duplicate a Degas. I do for a passport. It won't take too long to make - a few days, but I have to be clearheaded, and I haven't been for a while."

"Alright," Summers answered after a few seconds. "After we see the Degas we'll decide what we can do. But, Neal, if you're lying to me, you will not be happy with the consequences."

***

Feeling chagrined over his earlier outburst Peter returned to the office about two hours later, carrying a cardboard tray with three cups of coffee, to find Diana, Jones, and every probie they could get their hands on in the conference room. Mozzie was there, too, taking a small stack of paper from the printer and handing it to Diana. 

"This is every piece of equipment and supply Neal's used for every alleged forgery I've ever seen him do. I hope this is helpful, Lady Suit."

"There have to be - " she flipped through the pages - "a thousand items here."

"Twelve-hundred and ninety, give or take. They're grouped by medium. If he's sculpting, he'll need these items," Mozzie said, indicating a section toward the middle. "Paintings and drawings are all here up front, but I'd personally narrow it down to supplies for oils, since that always seemed to be his favorite. Gemstones are toward the back. Documents are in the last section." 

"Alright, let's split these up. Peter, you're just in time," Jones said, noticing his boss in the doorway.

"Did something happen while I was gone?"

"We had a 'What Would Neal Do' moment, which morphed into a 'What Might Neal Be Doing Right Now' and so we called in Mozzie. We're going to see if anyone bought anything Neal used in his forgeries, and try to trace it back to Mara Summers - or anyone, really," Jones said.

"You're looking for anyone who bought some combination of almost thirteen-hundred different art supplies in the past two weeks? Couldn't that be thousands of people from thousands of retailers?" 

"Yup," replied Diana. "Hence the probies. They're going to be doing the on-line research. We're going to have our staff visit the stores here in the city in person."

"You didn't manage to get a warrant for this, did you?"

"No, we thought we'd start out by asking nicely. Hey, it could work. We are the FBI."

Peter nodded his head. 

"If Neal is forging anything, it would probably be something he'd want us to find. Mozzie, can you highlight anything he'd need for a Monet, Degas, Raphael, I don't know, who else did he like to copy a lot? Sculpture might be a little harder to sell. This is good - really good. Thank you for getting this moving. I just - " he shook his head - "I hit a wall."

Mozzie walked over to Peter and put his hand on his shoulder.

"We're going to find him, Peter."

"Yes, we will." He looked around the room, at his two senior agents, all the eager young probies, and the White Collar staff of all levels of experience. 

"I guess I'm going to need more coffee." 

***  
 ** _Day 14_**

Neal had spent the last two days finishing the Degas, just as he had done before, right down to ensuring that the aging included immature microcracks. He found it ironic that he was wishing Philip Kramer might get a hold of this one soon. 

Today was devoted to the issue of the passport. There was no getting around the problem of the paper. Once, with the right materials and a lot more time than he'd had even from the day Boots picked him up at the park, he could have created the paper himself. Those days were long gone with the latest round of security features added to the US passport. He couldn't let her think that someone else could forge her passport as well as he could, nor could he even let her consider the possibility that he was trying to steer her toward anyone, but the New York City forging community was a lot smaller than she might have realized. If she was being truthful and the paintings weren't going to see the light of day any time soon, he could only hope that Mozzie had made contact with the city's top passport and document forgers.

*****

Peter's team had assembled a list of a couple hundred addresses that had received deliveries of items on the list. A few addresses received several different shipments from different companies, but the most interesting one was the one address that received an industrial oven a couple of days after a number of oil paints, brushes, canvases and an easel had been delivered. 

Peter and Jones drove out to the address that turned out to be a small storefront in Long Island City. Through the large front window they could see a desk with a few papers in a tray, a chair, some filing cabinets, a door to the foyer and a door to a back room. Access was evidently through the exterior door to the small foyer, which was locked. There were apartments on the three floors above the storefront. 

"What do you think, Peter? Maybe Neal's in here?"

"I don't know, maybe. It looks empty now but there's something behind the main room, and the apartments upstairs could be anybody. If we go in now without a warrant, any evidence we find is useless. But I hate to walk away and risk missing someone going in or out. Let's go wait in the car, get the van out here, and do some research on this building." 

***

"Time for your list, Mr. Caffrey."

He drew a deep breath. He handed her a single sheet of paper with a list of supplies written with the wax pencil she'd allowed him to use. He watched as she read through the specific inks and dyes, pens and tips, metal strips, a camera, photo printer and paper, a holographic printer, and - "

"A blank passport book? Are you serious?"

"If I could make the paper myself these days, believe me, I would. I can make you the best passport money can buy, but no one makes the paper any more. The best forgers in the community have some older ones hidden away that they use. If I had the right equipment and enough time - and I mean months, not days - I could make my own, but I haven't really been free to pursue that line of work for a few years now."

"And what did I say about your recommendations for outside individuals?"

He put his hands up. 

"These are just about everyone in the in this area that's likely to have what I need to do this for you. You ask your people - I'm sure you have someone in your client list who's familiar with the forging community. Get a recommendation from them. If they know somebody who's not on this list, then they're new and I don't know their work." 

***  
 ** _Day 15_**

Peter and Diana sat in the van outside the small storefront for hours while Jones looked for anything he could on the ownership and occupancy of the building. Deliveries had been made to C and M Associates, but the business was never registered in New York. Payments for both the packages and the rent were all made with pre-paid credit cards, purchased with cash at a number of different retailers in New York and New Jersey. A lot of trouble to go through if you're not trying to cover your tracks, Jones had commented.

Since two weeks had passed since Neal's kidnapping it was getting harder and harder to convince upper management to allow the search to continue. Hughes was sympathetic and would push to allow their investigation to continue until Mara Summers' trial was scheduled to begin, but without hard evidence he would have to pull the plug in ten days. Peter was hopeful for, but not really expecting, approval for a warrant to search the business based on the delivery of some art supplies and an oven; he was still disappointed when it was denied. There was nothing to prevent them from talking to the upstairs tenants, though, so he and Diana slipped out of the van and rang the second floor doorbell. They were just about to give up and try the third floor when a woman's voice came over the intercom.

"Is this another delivery for downstairs?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

"No, ma'am," answered Diana. "We're with the FBI, we're just looking for some information you might be able to help us with. Can we talk?"

A buzzer sounded and the lock on the front door disengaged.

***

The downside of not having anything to work on was that Boots didn't show up with food or the fan Neal relied upon for fresh air. He assumed Boots was checking out Neal's list of names, and used the time to look for whatever tools he could make with what he had available.

Which consisted of the inner workings of the toilet tank and the cot. 

****

"Your downstairs neighbor - do you know what kind of business it is?" Peter asked the middle-aged woman who lived above the storefront. 

"No, I ain't never seen them do nothin' but move boxes that I have let the delivery people in for. I mean, the guy has a sign to ring my doorbell every time something shows up."

"That sounds rather rude," Diana said sympathetically. "Were there a lot of deliveries here?"

"Yeah, a lot - maybe, uh, eight, ten, the week before last. I mean, he asked, before the first one, if I was home and could do it, which was fine, but I thought it would just be one or two. The last one, though - I had to tell him, no more. That was ridiculous. An oven. I mean, an oven, dropped off in that little entryway downstairs. Do you know how hard it was to get around it? God forbid if there was a fire or something."

"Do you remember when that was?" Peter asked. 

"Yeah, a little over a week ago."

Peter and Diana exchanged looks. This was the same information they had gotten through the purchases that were delivered to the building.

"And then, first night he comes back and drags it into the back of the store, he uses it and I swear, whatever he was cooking stunk to high heaven. Then he did it again a couple days ago."

"What did it smell like?" asked Peter.

"I don't know, but it sure didn't smell like food. Smelled like chemicals or something. Come here," she said, taking them to her kitchen. "Maybe you can still smell it where the pipe comes up through the floor."

Peter knelt on the floor and put his nose to the small opening around the water pipe. He looked at Diana and nodded.

"Can you describe him at all?"

"Not really, no. Shorter than you, brown hair. Wore really nice boots." 

"Thank you. If you hear him come back, could you call us, please? Don't say anything about us to him, if you don't mind." Diana gave the woman her card.

"Yeah, no problem. I'm hoping you can get him out of here."

"So, Peter, what did you smell?" Diana asked after they left the building.

"The smell of freshly baked oil paint." 

***  
 ** _Day 16_**

"Here," Boots said, handing Neal a paper plate with yet another sandwich. "Guess we forgot to give you something yesterday."

"Forgot, sure," Neal said, feigning feeling ill and weak. It wasn't hard to do. 

"I talked to our people, they recommended a guy named Devlin from your list."

Neal nodded.

"Devlin's good, he's discrete," he said, thinking of Devlin's I DO ID tee shirts.

"He said he'll have it tomorrow. I'll bring it to you then. I got most of your list, just waiting for delivery of one of the machines you asked for."

***  
It was the smell of the process used to age canvases that got the White Collar team its warrant, but when they entered the building there was nothing from the list of materials except for the stove. There was also no sign that Neal had ever been there.

***  
 ** _Day 17_**

"Here's your book," Boots said, handing the blank passport to Neal. "The only reason I didn't give the job to him instead of you is that we can't have anyone else see Mara's picture." 

Neal looked through the book carefully. 

"This looks good. Do you have the supplies I asked for?"

"I do, but Mara thought you could have one day off with food and the fan to show you she can reward as well as punish. I get to babysit you out here in the hall, so I guess I'm in the doghouse for something."

Neal just shrugged and laid down on the cot. He would have preferred the privacy he needed to start taking apart the door frame, but a comfortable rest and a full meal weren't all that bad.

***  
 ** _Day 19_**

Three days in a row with food and air - Neal realized that his things-that-make-life-enjoyable list was rather pathetic, compared to his time before prison, or when he was on the anklet. Hell, even compared to prison itself. 

He was a lot steadier and clear-headed, though. He had the photo and the magnetic identification strip, prepared a few stamps, and would be ready to mix the inks tomorrow. He told Boots he just needed the laminator to finish the front end of the book. He managed to hide a couple of the European Union and other foreign stamps when he realized Boots didn't really pay attention to the quantity of materials leaving Neal's cell. He was more interested in the number of blades and sharp items, so there was no way Neal could hold back anything he could use to escape. 

For the last two nights he had gone into the bathroom and pretended to vomit, making enough noise so that he could disassemble the metal bar between the float and the handle. Summers had come down to check on him from the doorway the first night; on the second she just spoke to him over the intercom. He told her it was his stomach, that he couldn't keep food down, but he'd finish her passport on time. The third time he "vomited" in an hour she turned off the intercom, and he realized just how quiet it was when the poor-quality speaker was off.

Still, she could turn it on at any minute, or Boots (or she) could show up, so he worked as quietly as he could. Although the door's hinges were on the outside, he was able to partially remove the frame on his side with the metal pieces he had scavenged from the toilet and the cot frame. He estimated it had taken him about six hours to get halfway done. He put the frame back in place enough so that it wouldn't fall off when the door was opened from the other side, and thought he might finish it and get out tomorrow night. He put the cot and toilet back together and crawled back to bed, and only then realized he had a raging headache.

***  
 ** _Day 22_**

"Peter, we may have found something," Mozzie nearly screamed over the phone. "A - guy I know - a lesser former competitor of Neal's - he may have sold a blank passport book to someone who didn't need anything but the book. The buyer said he could get everything else he needed."

"This guy reliable?" Peter asked, barely able to breathe.

"Reliable, yes, I think so. Timely, not so much. It was five days ago when he turned over the book. He didn't say anything earlier because he didn't make the connection, but now, well, he thinks it could be something."

"I need to talk to him."

Mozzie sighed. "I'll bring you to him, for Neal, of course, but this isn't someone I want to burn. If this is really the guy that took Neal, my contact doesn't even want June's reward money."

Peter nodded, even though he knew Mozzie couldn't see him. "Alright, set something up as soon as you can. I just want Neal back, too."

Five minutes later Mozzie texted an address to Peter. Peter got there forty minutes later, as directed. 

"Why am I not surprised it's a church," he mumbled to himself. It was an old style Catholic church with heavily grated closed door confessionals, the kind that generations of sinners couldn't be seen through. 

"Come on, Suit," Mozzie said, pulling on his arm as soon as Peter entered the vestibule. "You get to be the priest today. He's waiting for you in the one closest to the altar."

Peter wondered if he should be the one confessing his sins for impersonating a priest, but reminded himself it was a sting, not a con. It wasn't even a sting. Mozzie's guy knew that Peter was FBI. This was to save a friend. 

He sat in the priest's box and slid open the door on his side of the grate.

"Uhh, you have something to confess?"

Devlin was actually kneeling with his hands folded in front of his face, even though Peter could only see his silhouette. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I may have done business with a person who wants to harm someone I know and respect."

"What can you tell me about this individual?"

Devlin described him almost as thoroughly as Neal or Mozzie would have, with an eye to detail for appearance and voice. He took particular notice of the hand tooled cowboy boots.

"Can you describe the item you provided to him?"

Devlin shook his head. "It was just a blank US passport book. There's nothing in it that makes it any different from any other book before the individual security features and ID are added. The guy said he had somebody to do the work but he couldn't make the book himself without time and materials."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing."

"For your penance, if I ever catch you selling passport books again I will have you arrested. Thank you for your help with this, though. If you need anything, Mozzie knows where to find me."

***

Neal nearly finished the passport, but his headache from last night only moderately abated. The last thing he wanted to do was make any mistakes with the stamps, so after he mixed the inks he only stamped in the US re-entry stamps, leaving the foreign ones empty for now. Without a mirror he assumed he had bags under his eyes, but just to make sure he rubbed the slightest traces of brown pigment around his eyes. Even Boots noticed and commented, "Man, you look like shit." 

Neal just looked up from his work. 

"It's the excellent lighting conditions here, I'm sure. I still need a laminator to finish this."

"It'll be here tomorrow, don't panic." 

Later that night, Neal removed the rest of the door frame and carefully and quietly pulled the door back into his side of the room. He was faced with an unexpected obstacle. A heavy, solid piece of hardwood covered the entire opening. It was held in place by metal sliders on the floor, and presumably the ceiling that he couldn't see from his side of the room. He tried pushing it to the right, to the left, and straight out, but it was securely in place.

Getting past this was not going to be quick or quiet. He put the door back in its place, pressed the doorframe into position, went into the bathroom alcove, and, for the first time in three weeks, sat on the floor and let himself acknowledge that he would not leave this room alive. He was as close to despair as he had ever been in his life, more than when Peter arrested him the first time, more than when he had to give up Manhattan during his commutation, more than when things were at their worst with Hagen and Rachel and Peter - even more than after Kate's death. 

Fifteen minutes later, he had another plan. It would have to wait one more day.

***  
 ** _Day 23_**

"Agent Barrigan?" asked the familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, this is she. Can I help you?"

"This is Jenny, from the apartment above the store with the guy who got all the deliveries. Do you remember me?"

"Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"

"Well, you said to let you know if he came back. He's not here, but he just got another package, so he'll probably be here sometime today." 

Diana practically skipped up the steps and into Peter's office.

"Boss, we still got a team in Long Island City?"

He looked up at her and nodded.

"He'll be there sometime today. He just got a delivery."

Peter smiled more broadly than he had in three weeks.

"Give them a heads-up, and let's go catch us a bad guy."

***

The passport was finished. Neal figured Boots didn't really need to know how the photograph was affixed to the book, but thinking he needed more equipment would buy Neal more time. He was more concerned that all of the stamps be exactly right, so he continued to add them, making sure each was perfect. 

***  
It was nearly one a.m. when a man about Neal's height with brown hair and cowboy boots walked down 23rd Street, glancing around as if looking for something. He entered the building long enough to retrieve a box from the foyer, and exited into a ring of FBI agents, weapons drawn. Peter Burke cuffed the man himself after reading the name on the package - "Christopher Woolsey, you're under arrest." 

***  
 ** _Day 24_**

Neal stood in the middle of his prison holding the completed passport while Mara stood in the doorway, holding the stun gun.

"Push it over to me," she said, "and I'll have it verified. If it's good, I'll decide how to release you once I'm away from here."

Neal stood where he was, not moving, looking at her. Boots didn't come in first, as he always did, and she'd forgotten to turn his overhead light out before she opened the door, so he could see her face clearly. 

"No. If you want it, come and get it. You're nervous, Doctor. You're picking at your nails. Why is that?"

"Damn you, just slide it across the floor."

"This room - I'm outside your radius, aren't I? You're wearing a tracker that's probably accurate to within a few inches. And there's no one else here but you."

She fired the stun gun at him. He dropped the passport as he fell to his knees, all the while looking at her. She fired again, and he collapsed to the floor. She bit her lip, took a few steps in and kicked the passport back toward the door, then locked him in for the last time.

***  
"I want a lawyer," Woolsey said to anyone who would listen.

"As soon as we decide whether to charge you under New York State law, federal law, or the Patriot Act."

"What difference does that make? I still get a lawyer."

"Not if we charge you with terrorism, then we turn you over to the military as an enemy of the state."

"What?"

"That passport you got from a suspect we've had under surveillance. He sells them to foreign nationals and local militia groups."

"I don't believe you. I'm not a terrorist."

"Well, you think about it. We'll talk more after you've had a chance to consider your options."

Peter left him in a holding cell to consider his options. 

***  
 ** _Day 25_**

Neal woke up with a blinding headache, knowing he'd lost several hours again. He also knew Summers was never coming back, Boots was never coming back, and no one else knew where he was.

The dizziness was getting worse. He no longer worried about any noise he'd make, hoping just to be able to get out before he over-breathed whatever oxygen was left in the room. He pulled the metal pipe from his cot frame and forced it against the door frame to remove the frame and the door. He'd come up with three ways to get past the heavy wooden panel. The first, the easier way, was to see if he could reach some kind of latch with the thin metal bar from the toilet handle. 

He carefully slid the bar all the way around the small gap between the panel and the other side of the cinderblock wall, but never reached an end of the panel. He tried pushing the panel in both directions, but it still wasn't going anywhere, even sitting on the floor and pushing with both legs. 

That left one other way out, and it was going to take a while. He picked up the hallow pipe from the cot and started the tedious process of digging through the panel, a few splinters of wood at a time. The pipe was pitted and he ended up with cuts and bruises, and if the blood and sweat on his palms hadn't made it harder to grip the pipe he wouldn't have even noticed. He was breathing heavily but not getting nearly enough air to maintain his level of activity. The dizziness became faintness, and he slid to the floor grasping the pipe.

And then he felt an almost infinitesimal movement of air against his wet hand. He pressed his face as close as he could to the small gap between the panel and the wall and inhaled the slightest bit of air - wonderful, beautiful air.

****  
Jones called him just as he was about to go to the office to meet with Christopher Woolsey. 

"Peter, I'm watching Summers's tracker. She just left her house."

"Damn it, where are the Marshals?"

"They said the judge had given her permission to go to church. Today's Sunday and her trial starts tomorrow. Maybe she feels the need for a little outside help."

"Keep tracking her, call Diana and see if she can meet me. Where is Summers now?"

"She's driving south on East Shore Road. How long will it take you to get up to Kings Point?"

"I'm about 40 minutes away. Let me know where she goes and we'll just keep an eye out. Just in case. I feel the need for a little religion, you?"

"Don't you know it. Diana's going to cross over further north as soon as her sitter gets there, so she should get there around the same time as you."

Diana called about five minutes later.

"Boss, you better not be feeling guilty over my Sunday. This is Neal we're talking about. I want to find him and put her away almost as badly as you do. I should be there in less than a half hour."

"Peter, it looks like she really is at a church," Jones reported. "It's at - uh-oh, it's about two blocks from the Port Washington Yacht Club."

"You have a list of her seized assets handy?" 

"Right here, and, yes, she's got a boat docked at Port Washington. I'll call the Harbor Master at Port Washington, have him let us know if she shows up."

"See if our Marine Unit is available to -"

"Peter, her anklet just went off-line."

"Bet she's heading for the boat. Diana, how close are you?"

"About fifteen minutes out. You?"

"Maybe ten. I'm going right to the yacht club."

"I'll see you there."

***  
Neal felt reenergized after a few breaths of air, but it didn't last. As exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, he rested on the floor inhaling the limited air that came through the gap before preparing for one final push of breaking through the heavy panel.

***

Diana was mistaken. She and Peter arrived within a minute of each other. She saw Peter talking to the Harbor Master, who was pointing down the to the middle of the next row of slips. They could see Summers's boat starting to pull out of its slip as they ran down the wooden dock, until a Marine Police speedboat blocked her in. She had no choice but to re-dock. The Harbor Master and his staff tied off Summers's boat and put up a gangplank for Peter and Diana to board.

"Is this part of your church service?" Peter asked, taking her purse from her hands. He opened it and found a passport.

"Thought the courts took this from you," he said. "Where'd this one come from?"

***  
It felt like hours had passed when Neal recognized that he did not have the strength to get out. His bloodied hands were making it hard to keep a grip on the bar, and the harder he tried to dig the more the bar slipped. He wasn't giving up, not exactly, but realistically he doubted he'd escape. He only wished he could somehow let Peter and Mozzie and everyone he'd known and loved what had happened. Someday, maybe someone would buy this - whatever it was he was imprisoned in - and maybe they'd find this room. 

All he had with which to write a message was the blood on his hands. A cliché, perhaps, but still a classic, and he thought fondly of Kate. There were so many things he wanted to say, not that his message would get to anyone soon, but in the end he just wrote on the wall,

PB - THK U 4 -

_(thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for caring. Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for my life.)_

PB- THK U 4 ALL  
XO  
NC

 

****

Peter flipped through Mara's passport. The paper and the cover were real, it looked as if it had been handled and carried for the six years since its issue date. Summertime trips to the European Union, all with appropriately dated US stamps for returning, a few mid-winter trips to Costa Rico, Sydney, and -

“Where’s Neal?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer.

“Where. Is. Neal,” he repeated, holding the page with the Cape Verde stamp in front of her face.

She glared at him.

“I want immunity.”

“Is he alive?”

“He was when I left him,” she replied.

"And when was that?"

"Yesterday."

Peter stared at her for a few moments. The look of fury on his face made her step back, right into Diana.

“Diana, read her her rights, take her to a holding cell and charge her with kidnapping, escape, holding a forged passport, and anything else you can think of.”

Summers looked stunned.

“We had a deal,“ she said, sounding like a petulant child as Diana cuffed her.

“We never had a deal.”

*****

He worked at the splintered spot he'd made in the wood a few more minutes, sucking in a little more air, and noticed with indifference that his vision was tunneling to the one small spot he'd scraped off the panel. He poked weakly at it a few more times but couldn't gather the strength to remove even a few more splinters. He closed his eyes and laid down again.

"Neal." 

He dreamed that Peter was calling him from far away. It seemed like a pleasant way to die, hearing Peter's voice again.

"Neal." 

Peter's voice sounded closer and more desperate. 

"Neal!"

Neal opened his eyes. He still heard Peter's frantic shouts.

"Peter?" he whispered. He pushed himself to sit upright and swung the pipe against the panel two times before he had to lay down again. 

"Peter," he called out again, weakly, just in case the Peter he'd heard wasn't a hallucination, banging the pipe on the floor one last time as his eyes closed. 

It took a few seconds before he realized that a pair of strong arms were wrapped around his chest and pulling him out of the room.

"Neal, Neal, stay with me, Buddy," Peter said, dragging Neal from his dark, stagnant prison and into the larger basement room. He gently laid him on the floor and checked his pulse with one hand while he placed the other on Neal's chest. Neal's pulse was racing, his breathing very shallow and rapid. 

"Alright, you're going to be okay. Come on, Neal," he said softly as he sat on the floor and pulled his semi-conscious partner onto his lap. Peter took his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called for an ambulance, all the while running his hand over Neal's chest (just to be sure he was still breathing, he told himself). 

Just as he was about to call Mozzie Neal turned his head and opened his eyes. 

"Peter?" he murmured, reaching up to touch Peter's hand. 

Peter couldn't answer. For the first time in over three weeks he was able to let go of the fear he'd lived with, that they would - someday - find Neal's lifeless body somewhere, but he'd never again hear Neal's voice and his laugh, see his eyes sparkle when he'd come up with a brilliant (and probably outrageous) solution to a problem. Peter didn't even try to hold back his tears as he pulled Neal up a little higher and hugged him with both arms. When he could trust his voice, he finally said, "it's damn good to see you again." Neal twisted slightly, wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, pressed his head against Peter's chest, and nodded. "Yeah, you, too," came the breathy reply.

 

_Thank you for your time._


End file.
